Interview With a Deathknight
by Michael.Tinker.Pearce
Summary: Story was written during WoW Cataclysm, and it's an interview with a deathknight.


I write a broadsheet in Stormwind- "Winds of Change Weekly." Maybe you've read it? No? Well, your loss. Normally I would avoid the Lion's Pride in Goldshire like I would avoid the Plague, but for this interview I'd have gone to Icecrown. OK, maybe not, but I'd have thought about it.

I left the pure clean sunlight of the early spring afternoon and entered the infamous inn. I paused for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior- and to let my stomach get used to the smell of the place. Tobacco smoke, stale beer, sweat and ancient sin mixed with just a hint of urine… The place was crowded with people of all races in all manner of dress (tending towards scanty) and all states of consciousness and unconsciousness. Near-naked Night-elves, Draenei and humans danced on some of the tables- most of them females. Drunken shouts cut across the music and conversations regularly. Things were happening in the darker corners that I didn't want to look too closely at, but one of those corners contained the subject of my interview. He seemed to spot me immediately as I began to push through the crowd towards him, ignoring the whispered suggestions and occasional fingers that brushed against me hungrily.

He was a tall man- unremarkable but for that his hair was the pale color of spun silver and his eyes seemed to glow in the dim bar. His ornate black armor seemed to smoke slightly when viewed from the corner of the eye. A massive Great sword, as black as his armor, leaned in the corner behind his seat. It wrought with glowing red runes that twisted the stomach and eye that lingered on them too long and I felt a thrill of fear as I approached. I'm a sensible guy after all.

Others were rather less sensible. They were standing nearby in a small group apparently trying to bait the man. By their look they were a couple warriors and a rogue; battle hardened and tough they nonetheless seemed somehow ephemeral, lessoned by the presence of my subject. As I came into range to hear them over the din of the crowd one of the warriors said to his companions in a voice meant to be overheard, "Phew! Smells like something died in here!" His companions looked at the silver-haired man and laughed. The warrior fingered the edge of his axe and commented to his friends, "Seems to me like dead things ought to stay in the ground where they belong…" His buddies murmured assent and stirred themselves to move. I hesitated, wondering if this might not be a good time to give them some room. I'm a sensible guy, remember? Before I could retreat the man in the corner turned to look at me, his head swiveling like the turret of a steam-tonk. He fixed me with his cold, luminescent gaze and asked, "Do you know why people exchange insults with drunks?" I shook my head, mesmerized. "Neither do I," he said.

A flash of crackling purple energy lit the bar for a moment and suddenly the warrior's was snatched through the air, his throat was gripped in the cold, pale man's hand. Without hesitating my subject turned and slammed the warrior into the wall with a wet crunch and released him. The pale man regarded the warrior with distaste as he slid down the wall, eyes rolled far back in his head as he crumpled to a heap at his feet. He turned that turret-like gaze to the man's companions and gestured. They scurried forward submissively, muttering excuses and apologies for their drunken friend. He watched them carry off their Unconscious- perhaps dead- companion and then returned his gaze to me. He gestured to a chair next to his. "Shall we?"

I shivered and cautiously lowered myself into the chair next to the Death Knight and introduced myself. He extended a hand and I hesitantly shook it as he introduced himself. It was not at all what I expected- his hand was tough and calloused as you would expect of a seasoned warrior but not at all cold. He shook my hand with restrained strength, nothing to prove. "You can call me Phredd."

'Phred?," I asked, disbelief involuntarily coloring my one-word reply.

He grinned slightly and shrugged. "We can't all have epic names."

"Phredd then, right," I stammered as I collected my scattered thoughts and began, "Well, uh, Phredd, people are naturally curious about you and other Death Knights. I mean, you were created by Arthus but rebelled against him. That's about all folks know except that you sided with the Alliance and Horde against him."

"Actually," he corrected me, "We of the Ebon Blade rebelled. Others didn't."

"OK," I responded, "But now that Arthus is dead what do you all do? You seem to still be allied to us… but the war is over. What now?"

He shrugged again. "Mostly whatever suits us. Many of Arthus's creations still roam Northrend; they need to be contained, destroyed if possible. A lot of us are still about that work. Some of us free-lance and travel; hard to settle down. Partly it's our nature, partly it's that no one wants us as neighbors. Some of us," he nodded to several of the bar's denizens- who I was shocked to realize were also Death Knights despite their skimpy attire, "Try desperately to recover the feeling of being alive in any way they can."

This touched on a point that I had meant to bring up and I ventured hesitantly, "Are you then… uh… alive? Or are you undead?"

He snorted and replied, "I don't know exactly what we are; neither fish nor foul nor good red meat. But we're not… precisely… dead. Nor are we quite alive either."

Despite my unease at being in this place and so near this man, I was intrigued. "Can you elaborate on that?"

He looked at me intently, almost angrily and replied, "Oh we were killed; little doubt about that. But before we could join the Light our souls were ripped from our bodies, our bodies healed and our souls bound to those bodies with dark runes of power. Which F***ing hurts, in case you were wondering." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "You and other mortals- your soul infuses your body like water in a sea-sponge. That's how it's supposed to be and you feel whole and normal. It's different for us."

"How is it different?" I prompted him. He took a deep draught from his tankard and continued, "We were dead. Our souls should have gone to the Light or been consumed by the undead bastard's evil creations or whatever. Our bodies are alive but are soulless automatons. Our souls are bound to them and we see what they see, feel what they feel… but we are like puppet masters moving our bodies by jerking on the strings; unable to partake in the life of our own bodies. It's…" He considered for a moment, "unpleasant."

He gestured to a nearly naked Death Night dancing nearby and commented, "Thus some resort to that and it's like. Drowning themselves in drink and sensuality trying to forget what they are, even for a second."

"Thus also the angst that many Deathknights seem to express? Do you feel that angst yourself?" I asked.

He snorted derisively. "I don't feel 'angst,'I'm flat-out pissed-off!"

"At what? At them?" I gestured at the dancer, "At us?"

He shook his head and explained, "At m'self, mostly." Seeing my incomprehension written on my face he leaned forward and said, "Look… I spent my life sworn to the service of the Light. I sacrificed everything to fight evil, eventually right down to my very life. And how does the Light repay me after a lifetime of dedication? It lets me be turned into this," He gestured to himself to illustrate his point, "an abomination. A Monster. A parody of the paladin that I once was, powered by evil and darkness." He took another swig from his tankard.

"I guess that I cans see why that would piss you off," I said sympathetically. He made a sharp gesture of negation and shook his head.

"No ye don't see- ye don't see at all! I'm pissed at myself!" He nodded once, sharply, to emphasize his point. I stared at him helplessly, lost, and gestured for him to explain. "After all that service, all that sacrifice the Light turned its back on me… but I still can't turn my back on the Light! Drowning in darkness, animated by unspeakable evil, bound in agony to this soulless clay… I… still… serve…the … Light. The damned, stinking, back-stabbing betrayer we call The Light. I can't help myself! I must be the greatest idiot that ever trod Azeroth." He regarded his now empty tankard with a scowl so fierce and dark that I half expected it to burst into flames.

I was taken aback by the sheer energy of his self-loathing and gestured for the barmaid to bring him another tankard to allow him to collect himself. She brought another and he accepted it with a nod of thanks, took in a deep breath and blew it out again. I took that as a sign to continue and asked, "A lot of people view you and your fellows in the Ebon Blade as monsters. They distrust you all despite your risking everything to help bring down the Lich King and his works. How do you feel about that?"

He looked at me again with his cold luminescent eyes. "Like they are smart. Like they are right. If ever monsters have walked the face of this world we are monsters for sure and certain."

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

He looked at me incredulously and burst out, "Have ye not been listening to me? Have I not told you what we are? How could you call us anything _but_ monsters?" He gestured with the tankard, "Oh sure, we were distracted by the Lich King and now we're fighting the Scourge, or Deathwing or whatever but don't kid yourself that we are anything else.

"Let me tell you something ye don't know or don't get yet." He leaned forward conspiratorially, "What we are _hurts_. All the time. The runes that bind our souls burn like red-hot wires under our skin. The only thing that makes us forget that, that gives us any relief, is when we can lose ourselves in slaughter. A massacre is like a soothing balm to our tortured beings. It's an addiction that we fight constantly- the need to kill. Arthus made us this way to kill you all, every man, woman and child of you. There are enemies enough for now to keep us sated, to keep that addiction in check. But should we ever prevail against those foes how long do you think we can hold out? How long can we deny ourselves that blessed, cursed relief?" He nodded to emphasize his point, "Oh yeah, we're monsters right enough. That's why I agreed to this interview."

"That's why you… I don't understand!" I exclaimed.

"You've got to tell them, tell them all. That fool Varian, that goody-goody Jaina, and all those sheep living their stupid, petty little lives in Stormwind. We're not noble, we're not good. We're monsters and we're only going to be their monsters until there's no one else. Then sooner or later we'll be coming for _them._ When we do they'd better have figured out how to fix us, or they'd better destroy us all before that day comes. A dog on a leash is a pet, a companion or servant. But when he comes for your throat in the dead of night, all teeth and fury, he's just another monster… and we won't be good doggies forever."

He nodded again. "Interview's over- you tell them, and tell them good. Now if you don't mind I'm going have another beer or five, find me a woman and see if I can pretend to be a person again for while."


End file.
